The Red-Headed Clique
by acrylic.sunsets
Summary: When a red-headed client brings Sherlock a case of a missing woman and a disappearing pub, the puzzle appears odd but harmless. As bodies, intrigue, and a dark London underbelly become intertwined with the case, however, Sherlock and John find themselves trapped in a game with a shadowy foe that might just be one step ahead. Adaptation of the "Red-Headed League." AU post S3E2.
1. Prologue: The Shadow

**Prologue: The Shadow**

The electropop music bounced around the club, insulating the dancers from all sounds of the outside world. The circling strobe lights sent the walls into a tailspin, a confusing cacophony of gradients and flares.

Her heel broke and she swore, hand pressed against the stone wall. The corridor leading to the bathroom didn't have the flashing lights, but the music still throbbed painfully, so loud that she couldn't even hear her own voice.

She looked over her shoulder and saw a shadow standing at the entrance of the corridor. She swore again, kicking off her heels, and started a brisk walk away from it. She passed the bathroom door without hesitating and continued to the end of the hallway; blood rushed like a storm in her ears, a sudden assault of faintness, and she sent another glance behind her before pushing through the back door of the club.

She was in an alleyway. She stilled for a moment, closing her eyes in relief as the music ebbed away. The wet cobblestones under her feet brought her back, and she started to move, tentatively, carefully, forward. The music momentarily blared before again disappearing; the back door had opened and closed. She turned. The same shadow stood at the door, silent, waiting.

She looked to her left, saw the flashing but welcoming lights of the street onto which the alley ran. For a hopeful moment, she considered dashing toward it, begging for help from the first stranger she fell into, begging for salvation from the shadow.

But then she sank to the ground, leaning herself against the brick wall, and pressed a hand deep into her side. She was so tired.

The shadow came closer, its own shadow falling onto her bare feet. She pulled back her hand from her ribs for a second, her fingers sticky with her own blood. The wound was too deep, she knew, and she had lost too much blood.

Again, she looked longingly toward the glint of the street, that figurative oasis, then forced herself to look away, at the cobblestone, at her feet. Finally, she looked up at the shadow.

"You know, don't you?" she whispered. The shadow gave her no answer, just stared back at her.

She raised her hand to her head, threading her fingers through her auburn hair. Then she pulled, sliding the wig off and into her lap. The shadow bent down, leaning toward her until its face came into focus.

Their eyes held each other, and she felt her grip on her side weaken. And then the face was sliding back out-of-focus, along with the rest of the world, and her last sensation was her fingers tightening around a strand of hair as the wig was yanked from her hand.


	2. Chapter 1: Deductive Powers

**Chapter 1: Deductive Powers**

The man shifted uncomfortably on the couch, digging his fingernails into a loosening seam on the side of a cushion.

"I know what you're thinking."

"That's doubtful."

"Fellow like me, nothing much to look at, and then – then her, this gorgeous beauty." He stared at the phone in front of him, where a picture of a young woman with a cocktail in hand lit up the screen.

"It's a wonder she didn't blow me off sooner, you'll say." He looked longways at the consulting detective, searching for reassurance or a knowing smile. But the consulting detective, angled forwards, simply continued staring at him with the same piercing, intent gaze. After a few moments, he finally leaned back into his chair.

"I've long ago found that taste is one of the things that often evades the skill of deduction," he said. "No, Mr. Wilson, I'm rather more interested in some of the other aspects in your story. They could prove to be – unusual."

Jabe Wilson went back to picking at the seam. "The pub, you mean?"

"That, and the supposed disappearance thereof."

"Now, I didn't say it disappeared, just that I couldn't find – "

"Ah, John, just the man I need."

Wilson stared at Sherlock Holmes as if he had begun speaking in tongues. A short survey of the in-disarray room confirmed what he had originally thought – there was no one else there.

"I'm sorry," he coughed, "but who are you –"

The door to the flat opened and a middle-aged man stepped half-way inside. "Sorry to interrupt, I just stopped by to borrow the juicer. I thought maybe Mrs. Hudson was up here." Seeing the man sitting on the couch, he stepped fully inside, giving him a quick nod. "John Watson, hi."

Sherlock waved a hand, as if dismissing everything that had been said. "Forget the juicer. Jabe Wilson has something even better for you – a case. Won't take more than a few minutes. I'd like you to listen to his story and tell me what you think."

John shifted, clearly creeping toward the beginning of exasperation. "Look, Sherlock, Mary's with Rosie right now, I said I'd be back within a half hour."

"Mary knew full well the risk of sending you over to Baker Street unattended. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she used said appliance as an excuse to remove you from the house for a few hours. If I recall correctly, didn't Mary purchase a new juicer just a few weeks ago?"

John blinked back at him, his mouth pursing into an argument but his shoulders already sagging with a frustrated sigh. His frown looked to Wilson like the frown of a man who played this game often. Finally, the challenge in his eyes yielded to irritation. He gave in to the sigh.

"You know, just once, I wish the two of you would quit playing mind games and just talk to me like a normal bloody human being," he huffed out. He glanced over at Wilson, who was staring at him with a startled expression.

John frowned again, this time apologetically. "Sorry, I, uhh – " He looked back over at Sherlock, who was still leaning back in his chair, looking at John with an even, slightly (Wilson thought) amused expression.

With a third and definitively conclusive sigh, John lowered himself into the empty chair across from the couch and nodded to Wilson. "Alright, then."

"From the beginning," Sherlock said.

"But I just – " Wilson stared plaintively at the detective, who had already closed his eyes behind steepled hands. He looked back at John, who smiled sympathetically and offered an "If you don't mind."

Wilson ran a hand through his bright red hair (what was left of it) and began picking at the seam again. He succeeded in breaking it and found no more excuse for stalling.

"Well, I guess it all started a few months ago. I was out with a – well, a sort of colleague, really. Vincent Spaulding, that's his name."

"Sorry, where do you work?" John asked. Wilson looked up. At some point, John had produced a pad and a pencil and was now taking notes.

"I'm a scrivener notary. I work at Cheeswrights."

"Right, and by 'sort of colleague,' you mean…?"

"Well, he's my apprentice. Training to be a notary. Hasn't been with us long."

"How long?"

"Around three months." Wilson frowned, unsure how much of this interrogation was necessary. Sherlock was still reclined in meditation.

John finished scribbling and looked up. "Alright, sorry, go on."

"Yes, well, it was still pretty early on in the night, but we were already a little drunk. We were trying to decide where to go next when Vincent turns to me and says, 'I know where you can get a night's worth of drinks for free.' I laughed, you know," Wilson paused, as if offering them a chance to laugh as well. John looked up from his pad but only nodded encouragingly, so Wilson continued.

"But he seemed serious, and since I didn't have any particular place in mind, I let him lead. Now, this is where it gets a bit tricky, because I was already quite drunk, and he led me through so many little side streets and alleys that I wasn't quite sure where we ended up. That's where I met her."

"And what pub was that, then?" John asked. Wilson was slightly disappointed he hadn't asked who _she_ was, which he had been certain was the main matter of interest.

"It was more of a nightclub, actually, not the sort of thing I'd normally go for. It was called the Red-Headed League."

John's eyebrows raised. "The Red-Headed League? Never heard of that one."

"Neither had I, but I'll be honest with you, it was the oddest thing I'd seen in a while, and the thing was – all red-heads got in for free. All of their drinks were on the house. Every drink I ordered, completely free."

"Like a promotion, you mean?"

"No, according to Vincent, they always did that. Like a tradition, I suppose. Don't know why he went there, come to think of it – he's brunette, you see."

"And the woman you met there, what was her name?"

"Cara. Cara White. This was a few more drinks in, and all of a sudden, I feel this hand on my arm and this beautiful voice, and someone's asking if she can sit beside me. And I turn to see this stunning, auburn woman, in this sparkling red dress." Wilson lit his phone up again and nudged the picture toward John, whose eyebrows went up appreciatively. Wilson nodded in agreement.

"So maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the strangeness of the evening," he plunged on, "but I asked her on a date. And she said yes, but she said it was always hard for her, dating, because she had such a busy schedule as a nurse, that her only real free night was Thursdays. She asked if that would work for me." He chuckled to himself. "Now, you have to understand, I would have canceled a shuttle to the moon in order to go on a date with her."

Sherlock made the first movement he had made the whole story, opening his eyes and sitting up slightly.

"Less ornamentation and more facts, please, Mr. Wilson," he cut in impatiently.

Wilson looked abashed. "Right, well, I'm only – well, the point is, we met the following Thursday, and continued to meet up every Thursday after. It's been about eight weeks, up until last week, when I waited for her for half an hour only to get a text that she couldn't see me anymore. See?"

He thrust forward his phone again, this time on a text message thread. John read the few texts that were in view:

JW **I'm at the table, bit early**

 _Thursday, June 21 • 7:54 PM_

CW **b thr in 2 min cu ;D**

 _Thursday, June 21 • 7:56 PM_

JW **At the table, see you soon**

 _Thursday, June 28 • 8:04 PM_

JW **Are you running a bit late? Just making sure everything is alright**

 _Thursday, June 28 • 8:28 PM_

CW **Jabe, I'm really sorry, but i don't think i can see you anymore. I wish i could**

 **explain**

 _Thursday, June 28 • 8:32 PM_

JW **What do you mean?**

 _Thursday, June 28 • 8:33 PM_

JW **Cara? Is it something that I did?**

 _Thursday, June 28 • 8:40 PM_

Wilson pulled the phone back hesitantly, even though a string of one-sided, pleading messages followed. "I tried calling her, it went straight to voicemail. I haven't gotten a single text from her since, she never gave me her address. I think – I think something's happened to her. That's why I'm here."

Sherlock finally sat up stiffly, mouth crooked with irritation. "I'm afraid to say, Mr. Wilson, that a disappearing woman is not at all the part of your story that I find interesting," he said in a low and impatient voice, individual words bouncing like staccato. "I would say the disappearance of Ms. White is, in fact, a rather dull and mundane addendum to the true crux of the uniqueness of your case, which, by coincidence, you have yet to share with my colleague."

John shot him a visibly reprimanding glare, which Sherlock only returned with an unapologetic side glance.

Wilson felt a surge of sudden bravery in the face of the man who he had, until then, found rather intimidating, as indignation on Cara's behalf overtook him.

"I'm sorry you think that, Mr. Holmes, but the fact is, I am employing you to find her. If you find her disappearance to be a – a mundane addendum, as you put it, then maybe I should take my money elsewhere."

"By all means, Mr. Wilson." Sherlock reclined calmly back in his chair, legs crossed, and began scrolling through a phone he pulled from his pocket.

Wilson had begun regretting his sudden outburst from the moment he had opened his mouth, and he regretted it even more now that it was clear it had had little effect. He valiantly plowed on nevertheless.

"Yes, yes, I think I will go somewhere else. You came highly regarded, but I am yet to see a single display of those purportedly astounding deductive powers."

Sherlock looked up sharply, his dark, abyss-like, vibrating eyes meeting Wilson's pudgy, watery ones. "Deductive powers?" Sherlock pronounced slowly, in an even baritone.

John exhaled through his nose and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Don't bloody encourage him."

Wilson turned back to Sherlock, riveted, for the forked lightning in the consulting detective's eyes foretold an impending storm.

He was right, for suddenly Sherlock's words were flying with him at the speed of telegraph clicks. "You are quite right, Mr. Wilson, in thinking that my deductive powers are a fickle and rather useless art. In this case, for example, there is little that I can deduce about you, other than that you have spent a considerable amount of time in manual labor, that you smoke cigars, that you are a member of a fraternal society, you have been in China, and that you have recently spent a large amount of time writing."

Wilson stared at him blankly, certain that he had shared none of those facts with the consulting detective. An uncomfortable feeling of having the detective inside his head settled on him, and he tried to clear any incriminating thoughts from his mind. "But - but you – how?"

Sherlock relaxed back into his armchair, the flames in his eyes dimming into an amused and proud glimmer.

Wilson looked at John, but he had his eyes aimed upwards, as if silently praying, with pursed lips.

"Where would you like to begin, Mr. Wilson? The check you handed me earlier had the distinctive smell of cigar smoke, I would guess a habit you relapse into in times of stress. Your left arm appears far more developed than your right, indicating a type of manual labor that builds up one-sided musculature. Your fraternal society membership, as much as I loathe to embarrass you – "

"God help me," John interrupted, still staring upwards.

" – would be harder to deduce if you chose not to monogram its Greek letters onto your wallet."

"And my trip to China?"

"When you handed me your phone, I noticed an English-Mandarin dictionary app installed on it. That, combined with your screen saver being a rather unprofessionally angled photograph of the Forbidden City, makes the conclusion quite trivial."

"But the writing?"

"Writing left-handed always makes for unfortunate smearing, does it not, on both your hand, and on the edge of your left sleeve."

Wilson sat silently, absorbing the information, wondering what else of his life had been made obvious to the man in front of him from a cursory glance.

"Don't worry," John finally addressed him, almost as if reading his thoughts, tapping his pencil against his notebook. "He does it to everyone."

Wilson stared at the smug, intimidating man in front of him. "Well, I suppose…so long as you do find what happened to Cara…I will retain your services." His attempt to sound authoritative and objective failed miserably with the slight quiver of his voice.

"Good," Sherlock said, rising and reaching for a dark Belstaff flung over the arm of the couch. His voice carried authoritative off far more convincingly. "Now that that's settled, let us go and find your mysteriously disappearing pub, shall we?"


End file.
